Page 20 of Rotten Men

“Gio, its Dom. You have to come home. Now.”

“Shit, what happened? Is it Vincent?” he asks, unable to hide the panic in his voice.

“No. He’s fine. Well, sort of,” I mumble.

“The fuck, Dom! You almost gave me a heart attack. My imagination was already coming up with scenarios of howThe Butcheror maybe your fucking BFF whacked our brother out,” he relents, pissed at me, but I just roll my eyes at his dramatics.

“Just shut the fuck up, Giovanni, and get your ass home!” I order, with no patience for his bullshit right now.

“Why?”

“Red’s back.”

Eight

Selene

While the uniformed guard double checks my ID, I sign my alias on the dotted line. He hands me the driver’s license back once he’s satisfied, and orders me to stand in line against the bleak white wall with the rest of the grim-looking visitors here. I’m not one to follow orders anymore, but I know this routine by now, and if I want to see James, I have to submit to the jailers’ demands.

One by one, each visitor’s belongings are searched, as well as the customary pat down to ensure no contraband makes it within the facility’s walls. The Cheatham County Jail likes to be known for having a zero-tolerance rule with any visitor trying to smuggle in goods for its inmates. But since I’ve been here every weekend for the past two months, I’ve seen enough to know that a few guards can be bought to turn a blind eye—a little piece of information which may become useful, if push comes to shove.

The loud ring of the opening door sends a cold shiver down my spine, as all of us file into the solemn visitors’ room with its round steel tables and bolted-down chairs. I loathe being in this place. I was sure I had escaped the despicable fate of visiting a loved one in a horrid facility such as this one. But karma seems to think it ironically funny to have me live out the same experiences I thought I’d run away from long ago.

It could be worse. At least I won’t have to talk to James behind a glass partition, separating us completely. It’s a small comfort to be allowed to hug him briefly at hello and goodbye. No other contact can be made, not even a simple, inoffensive gesture like holding hands. That’s crossing the line in the eyes of the law, apparently. This place was built to break spirits, not offer solace.

I take my seat nearer to a window, hoping the sight of the clear Tennessee sky will bring him some joy—a feeling he hasn’t been able to experience these last couple of months, something that I’m hoping to fix.

The clank of another opening door grabs all of the visitors’ attention as, one by one, orange jumpsuits come into view.

James’ eyes lock on mine immediately, and his endearing grin surfaces as he walks in my direction. After our three-second hug ends, he sits down opposite me with his carefree smile no longer in place.

“You look like shit, Beautiful,” he appraises, his brow furrowed in alarm. But I’m too worried to pay him any mind when he’s showcasing an ugly shiner and a split lip as its companion.

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Handsome,” I reply, trying to taunt him, but it falls flat as I see him cringe when he grazes himself against the table. He shifts until he’s found a sitting position comfortable enough, favoring his left side to avoid further pain. “Got some ribs broken there, too, huh?”

“What can I say? I’m a people person. Some of the fellas here like to play rough, and you know me. I hate to disappoint,” he jokes with his Nashville, country-boy swagger.

“Nice to see you’re making friends then,” I counter lightly, even though it hurts to look at him this way. It is unforgivable to me that such a strong man, who survived so much ugliness in his life, is forced to defend himself in a prison brawl.

“How are you? How is everything back home?” James questions, trying to divert my attention from his injuries.

“As expected, considering the circumstances,” I reply sullenly at his attempt to move the conversation to a safer topic. “Is roughhousing the reason why I couldn’t visit you last weekend?”

“Sorry about that, Beautiful. Had to spend some quality time with a hot nurse instead. You don’t mind, do ya?” He winks flirtatiously, and I have to smile at his optimistic spirits.

“Not one bit, Handsome. Knock yourself out.” I know he’s trying to make me laugh with his feeble attempts at provoking jealousy, but seeing his body so broken is no laughing matter.

“I have to get you out of here,” I mumble under my breath, not wanting anyone nearby to hear our conversation.

His teasing smile thins, and he takes a cautious look around before beginning the reprimand I know he’s itching to give.

“Selene,” he hushes out, so no one else hears him say my real name. “We talked about this. Let the legal system do its job. I’m an innocent man. The court will prove that.”

“James, how many times do we see murderers, rapists, and lowlifes get off on a technicality while innocent men get life sentences? The justice system is blind in more ways than one. I don’t have faith in it, and neither should you,” I reproach, annoyed he somehow still believes the truth will set him free.

“It’s all we have, and I need you to keep your wits about you, okay? I can’t think straight as it is inside this place, and if you start to fall apart, then I’m going to lose it. You hear me? Trust that everything will play as it should and, before you know it, I’ll be home,” he explains, and I see genuine belief in his eyes.

I adore this man for being the safe haven I longed for when I was so lost and broken, but his trust in people—and society as a whole—is so innocent and naive that it’s painfully aggravating. No beating or unjust circumstance could knock sense into him in thinking the contrary. He’s seen so much violence and despair, yet he continues to hold on to his rainbow-like vision of the human race. A sweeter woman would find the trait endearing. I find it mind-bogglingly frustrating.

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